And So It Is
by hey-torch
Summary: The day before the funeral, with the family in pieces, everyone's trying to deal in their own way.
1. Ways To Get To Your Heart

**A/N: **A thought, a notion, an idea that came to me when listening to the song quoted below. My others have all been one shots, but this is a chapter story. It works nicely for me though, cuz each one is like a one shot. Each chapter focuses on a different character and is told from their POV. Let's see if this works…

**Summary: The day before the funeral, with the family in pieces, everyone's trying to deal in their own way.**

**Disclaimer: These clothes, my notebooks, this computer, those movies, my cell and my car…that's what I own, sadly RENT is not on that list, nor is the song "The Blower's Daughter."**

"_And so it is_

_The shorter story_

_No love, No glory_

_No hero in her sky"_

_- "The Blower's Daughter" Damien rice_

_00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 _

Pan left.

Zoom in on the park bench; on the quiet man tossing bits of bread to a group of pigeons. Catch the loneliness in his eyes. Get the feeling they're all he has. Zoom out. Shift farther left. Without zooming, the camera catches an officer berating someone and forcing them away.

I stop filming and lower the camera to look around. Taking in everything here. People, dirty and haggard. A couple of men attempting to inconspicuously make a trade. Cash for powder. How much did a life go for these days? How much did it cost to destroy yourself like that?

I feel a pang in my heart as a thought comes to me: Roger probably remembers. Mimi definitely knows.

Sex, drugs, artists and struggle. La vie Boheme. A world that could be so beautiful - that _was_ so beautiful - had a dark side. The darkest of any life.

I mount my bike, hooking the camera on the handlebar and peddle down the street a way. For some reason, I don't turn on the street that leads back to the building I live in. I just keep going. Keep peddling. Thrusting my legs harder and faster. Breathing heavily as my body efforts to move the bike farther and farther and farther. I have no clue where I'm going, but my legs move on their own, until they finally stop peddling.

Coasting to a stop, I feel my throat tighten when I see where I've stopped. Of all places; I should just keep going forward or turn and go back. Instead I dismount, setting the bicycle against the trunk of a tree and take my camera with me. Stepping lightly, I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. I don't know why I'm here. I don't want to be here. I hold my running camera steady, walking slowly. Passing and recording the cold headstones. Each with names and numbers carved into the thick slabs. Someone missed, someone loved, someone lost. A story with each one. I film them.

Rows of stone.

Some smooth and polished, newly set. Others faded, roughed up by the angry passage of time. I'm walking slowly down the lines, trying to respect them at the same time I'm using them. Using them for my own purposes. My own so called art. A new image enters the frame and I pull the camera away, clicking it off.

The delicate curves and smooth structure of the shining rock stood over me. A beautifully carved angel, hands reaching upwards, wings spread as if prepared to take off right in front of me; to soar through the sky. It's marble eyes gazing without pupils. Looking at everything and nothing at the same time. At me and through me. I feel paralyzed by those eyes; by it's beauty.

Unintentionally, I've wandered over here to the more intricate, more expensive of remembrances. This statue had to cost more than any of us spent in months. Tomorrow I'll be back over there. A simple stone with a name at the head of a pile of freshly upturned dirt. Angel deserved something like this. Something this breathtaking to signify how loved, how beautiful, the person was in this life. Benny could afford something like this. It would probably be nothing to him. But it was already enough that he was paying for what was already arranged. Simple, that's what it was going to be.

Simple.

What a lie. Nothing's simple.

Angel's death wasn't simple. The way we were handling it, what it was doing to us all, was horribly far from simple. We should be sticking together and supporting each other through this. But we're not. Our family is in shambles.

I haven't seen much of any of the girls, lately. It's understandable, I guess, where Maureen and Joanne are concerned. But Mimi lived in the same building as me and I think I've seen her twice. Always in passing; coming or going. I think I saw more of her when I only knew her as the girl downstairs then I have the past week. When I try to say something to her, she mumbles a response I can't decipher before leaving the building or closing herself inside her apartment.

I worry about her and Roger more than the rest. Funny, you'd think it'd be Collins, but ironically enough, I think he's handling this better than any of them. Joanne has her work, and God knows Maureen has all sorts of ways to keep herself busy and whatever her version of sane is. Those two, even though they're not together at the moment, they're able to deal in a healthy way. Roger and Mimi, unfortunately, were different.

Without each other to lean on, they're both crumbling to pieces. She's, no doubt, grieving for her friend in the form of needles and belts. And he's withdrawing once again. In the same room as him, I can feel how far away he is. Angel's death is reminding him of his own mortality. He's not the only one thinking about it.

Angel's not the last. Just the first. Roger, Mimi, Collins. I'll be going to all their funerals someday. God willing, it wouldn't be any day relatively soon. I try to keep that hope alive in my heart. I have to. I have to believe that Collins won't just give up without Angel in his life. That it's just the shadows in the stairway that make Mimi appear so depressingly depleted. That Roger isn't allowing himself to wither and die before he's actually dead.

Rows of graves. Rows of stone.

The towering angel is no longer beautiful. It's transformed now to a dark image of inevitability. Staring at me with a warning in it's lifeless eyes. In a film, use of light has a profound affect on the message conveyed. Before my eyes, shifting shadows turned the delicate creature into a monster of foreshadowing darkness. It's warning me; telling me to prepare myself for it. The eyes, looking into me, see my soul. My greatest fears. It taunts me, saying that it's coming. It's out reached hands, no longer welcoming, are the vices of torture. The sadistic claws of the beast that will rip them each away. Suddenly, I'm terrified it's preparing to take off; to speed across the limitless October sky to find each of them and slowly, painfully, pull the breath from their bodies.

I stumble, blindly taking a panicked step backward. I have to leave now, no longer able to remain in the presence of the grotesque creature. I have to see them. To know it hasn't happened. That the demon disguised in wings and robes hadn't taken them. Not yet.

It's so typical, so cliché, that there's rain coming. Like in a movie, the weather seems to coincide with the breaking of hearts. Was it really almost a year ago? That Collins met Angel; Tat Mimi came upstairs; That Joanne couldn't fix the equipment. Almost a year.

Time; what a tricky fucker.

Almost a year since we became a family; became whole. Now, nearing what would be the anniversary of that night, those life changing events, that family is only a memory. Scenes on a screen.

I slowed my pace after leaving the cemetery behind. I don't need to rush home with cold fear icing through my veins. Indulging in the fear only gives it power over me. My heart calms and returns to it's regular beat. On the way home, I pause in front of the performance space my ex holds so dear to her heart. I wonder if she's in there now. Thinking of new ways to protest new issues. Planning her next big scene. Maybe. All I'd have to do was wander in and see. But I should get back. Rain would fall soon and drivers hardly pay attention to my bike in broad daylight. Plus, no matter what I think about fear, it'd make me feel a lot better if I saw Roger was ok. I don't like leaving him alone to wallow and stew for long.

I swerve when an annoyed driver honks at me before straightening out and continuing on. Coasting through the narrow streets, again I have to notice the people. The grifters, the beggars, the addicts, the helpless. After living here for so long, you start to become desensitized to these sights. Almost expecting them really. But there were days it felt like I was seeing it all for the first time.

I'm luckier than a lot, but, at the same time, worse off than a lot as well.

La vie Boheme.

This is where it is; amongst the dejection and anguish. In the end, it takes you back to the cemetery, one way or the other. Attending a service or being the cause of one. By the time I reach the front of the decrepit building in which I live, a drizzle had begun to fall. Dots of moisture stuck to the lenses of my glasses, annoyingly obscuring the world I saw. Standing beside the bike, I remove and wipe them, pointlessly since I'm still outside in the falling water.

I look up with my freshly wiped glasses, hearing the door open. The dancer from one floor down quickly descends the stairs, looking all kinds of distraught. It saddens yet relieves me, thoughts of the ugly statue still fresh in my mind. Her arms wrapped around herself, eyes cast downward, I don't think she sees me.

"Hey Mimi." I attempt again. "How-"

Her sharp shoulder accidentally knocks against me as she walks by, stopping my feeble effort to converse. Again she says something I can't really hear, I think she apologized but I can't be sure, before continuing at the same hasty pace. I watch her hurry down the sidewalk a moment, wondering if she'll look back or if she even knew who she'd run into. I don't want to think about where she's going, what's getting when she gets there. I sigh, hoist the bike up and enter the building.

In the loft, Roger's no where to be seen. I think for a second, that he's actually left the apartment and gone somewhere. That is until I notice his guitar is gone as well, though the case remains here. I know he's just gone up to the roof. Unwinding the scarf from around my neck, I stand in front of the cold steel table, laying my palms on its smooth surface.

I wonder if Angel can somehow see us.

See how lost everyone is.

_0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000_

**_Ok...give it to me...i'm not afraid...WAIT! -covers sensitive areas protectively- ok..._now_ let me have it._**


	2. Neon And Chrome

**A/N:** alrighty chapter 2 comin at you. different character. different POV. and a big, large, titanic, gigantic, monstrous, enormous, umm...animorphic, deoxyribonucleic, quadratic, supercalafragilistic, (i seem to have lost myself there, but you get the picture) thank you to PandaFire McMango for the review(s) and introducing me to that fabulous song. Onward!

**Disclaimer: Still not mine...but i did acquire a fun new pen since we last met! Add that to the list!**

_"Somehow everything I own_

_Smells of you_

_And for the tiniest moment_

_It's all not true."_

_- "You Could Be Happy" Snow Patrol_

_00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000_

Angel's dead.

It may sound hars to say it so bluntly. It might make me sound heartless, even. But it was the truth. The truth, reality, is harsh. People always try to pretty it up. Then think if they cushion the delivery of bad news, bury it in some meaningless metaphors or extra unnecessary words, it'll change it's effect on you. Ridiculous. Pain doesn't change or lessen depending on how the words are said.

Pain is pain. Loss is loss. Death is death.

And Angel's dead.

Plain truth. Cold fact. She's dead. She's dead and I'm not. How messed up is that? How stupid and cruel and just plain fucked? It wasn't her fault she got sick; not like me. Always generous, always giving. Not like me. I'm selfish. I'm selfish and I'm sick because of my selfish habit. Yet, she's gone and I'm still here.

Fucked. What a world.

A world that damns those most deserving of happiness and peace, while at the same time, allowing someone like me to stay behind. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I never thought it would be this way. That she would be first.

"Shit." I hiss, jerking in place and swiping the burning ember off my thigh. The orange bit falling from the cigarette brought me quickly out of my reverie as it came in contact with the skin tight blue pants.

I notice now, the stick held between my fingers had burnt down to its end. The ash sprinkled down, unnoticed, onto my lap as well. I had only taken a single drag of it before spacing off. A waste. Discarding it out the open window, I watch it bounce once against the balcony before rolling between the bars and falling from sight.

I think about getting another, but decide I don't really want it enough to get up and get it. So I just return my gaze to the scenery visible from my spot beside the tarnished window pane. Nothing spectacular. A building similar to this one. Same dilapidated walls with the same rusted steel balconies attached. Probably don't have heat either. I follow the balconies; one leading up to another like the trail of a maze. The black line zigzags, leading my eyes to the roof and then, craning my neck against the glass, I was looking at the sky.

My thoughts immediately come back to Angel. I don't know if there's a God or Heaven or Hell or anything after you die. Personally, I've always seriously doubted the existence of some invisible man in the sky who was everywhere and saw everything all at once. Religion wasn't something you saw much of here. But at the same time, I want to believe there's something pleasant and peaceful; some somewhere we can't see or touch. It hurts too much to think that someone as phenomenal as Angel could just end. She has to still exist somewhere. Somewhere there's music. Somewhere she can dance.

I tear my eyes away from the seasonal gray sky and point them down. A salted drop falls from my eye and crashes against my leg, leaving a dark spot on the material. As much as I'd love to believe she was in that place; that imaginary place, I'd rather she were here. I'm selfish and stupid. Preferring she was still here, living day to day wondering whether or not there was enough to eat that night, or one of the million other problems she no longer had to deal with. I'm horrible. I want her here with me, even if it means being sick all over again. I shut my eyes and softly thunk the back of my head against the wall for thinking like that.

Now I direct my sights to the ceiling. I can hear his boots pounding against the floor of his place. As if he doesn't know there's another apartment below him. As if he doesn't know I'm down here. He knows. He just doesn't care. Hearing him move around pisses me off. Makes me think of him up there. Moping around. Brooding.

Bastard.

Probably pacing. That stupid guitar in his hand. Always saying he'll write his own song. He'll finish his own song. But he always ended up strumming those same notes from that same song. Musetta's Waltz, apparently. I'd heard it before plenty of times, but didn't know it's actual name until recently.

When I found out I was sick, I always assumed I'd go first. Angel always looked so healthy. She had a glow. Sometimes, I could almost forget that there was an illness residing in our bodies. I always thought she'd be the one at my side, holding my hand when I died. Then, for a while, I actually thought that person would be Roger.

Now look. Angel's gone and he's decided I'm not worth a second of his time. Because I hadn't had the resolve and strength he wanted me to. Not everybody goes cold turkey. He came to me when I tried and said he'd help. That it'd be ok and he'd be there every step to help me. Then what? He just walks away at the first episode of weakness.

Well, Fuck you, Roger Davis.

Up there in your loft with your best friend. He still has his closest friend. His constant. Mark will be there when Roger goes. He'll be right there for him until the end. He still has him.

How dare he think he should grieve for her? How dare he think he has the right to be hurt? I want to yell it in his face; in all their faces. I want to scream at them:

I knew her first! I loved her first!

I'm selfish. They all cared and loved her, I know that. They have every right to be in pain. I know how much Collins loved her, and how much she loved him right back. So very much. She would talk about him when we'd get together, just us. Tell me all sorts of things he did. The bad habits that ammused her, the weird ones that puzzled her. Everything.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

His damn boots.

I hate him.

I hate him for having Mark. For still having the rock in his life when I did have mine anymore. I hate him for not listening; for not understanding.I hate him for making me love him.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

I hate Mark, always hiding behind his camera. Staying safely behind the glass window that allowed him to look but never touch.

I hate Maureen for not seeing what she has. For not realizing the safety and security and love she has with Joanne. For risking the same affliction that took Angel, everytime she steps out on her.

I hate Joanne for her socialite family upbrining. For never having to wonder, growing up, which father was coming home at the end of the night. Would it be the one that laughed his hearty, deep laughter and spun his children around through the air? Or would it be the other? The angry, short-tempered one that the alcohol brought out?

I hate Collins for being the one that was with her in the end. For loving her so much that I really can't hate him at all.

I hate, I so deeply hate Benjamin Coffin III for so much. His meal ticket wife that made him believe he was so far above us. Turning off the heat in this shitty building. Locking us out of it. Then saying he's sorry; he cares.

Sorry enough to talk to Roger? Cares enough to try and make it right?

Hell no. But he's taking me to the funeral tomorrow. Why not? If he's paying for the service; giving Angel a proper resting place, I owe him thanks. So I'll let him take me tomorrow.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Fucking boots.

I want to go up there and tell him to just stop. Tell him how much I hate him. Scream it in his face. The idea gets me to my feet and across the room. But I stop before I open the door. I know if I go up there; if I see his face, the hate will go away. All the hate will be gone, leaving just the love. Just the tears.

I'll stay here. Anger was better. Tears were for tomorrow. For Halloween.

I look around, I feel like doing something. Breaking something. But everything I have in this crummy place is either a gift from or a reminder of Angel.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Pissed off. Sick of thinking. I grab the nearest thing. A small lamp, it's base the same gold color as her nail polish. Bending my knees, I heaved the small light upwards as hard as I could.

"Fuck you!" I scream at the ceiling, covering my head as the worthless lamp hit it and came back down in pieces. Sparkling golden shards showering back to the floor.

Upstairs, he stops. The only thumping now, just the heavy pounding of my angry heart. He heard me, or maybe just it at least. My eyes begin scanning the flat surface above me, following fresh footsteps across. I can hear the heavy door scraping agains tthe floor as it slides open. For an ignorant second, I think he's actually going to come down here.

I sigh after a second. Because I know what a stupid thought it was. I know where he's going. Where he always goes. Up to the roof to continue his brooding, uninterrupted.

I'm still mad as hell. Still feeling so bitter and lost and empty. Alone. That's what I am. Alone.

I forgot me. I hate myself. The things I do.

I take my finger and lightly run it along my right arm. Tracing the black that reminds me of the jagged line of stairs just outside my window.

I move to the dresser, opening the small wooden box resting on top of it. Nothing. None in there. So I move to the closet. On my knees, I pull out the specific boot and tip it, reaching inside when nothing comes out. My hand comes back empty. Nothing. Damn it. I can't believe it's all gone already. I stand up and go back to the dresser, this time opening the highest drawer to pull out the small wad bills resting there. I spend a second just looking at the money in my hand. It was a good deal of money. Could be used for other things; better things. There was barely any food here.

I'm fiddling with the paper while I think. Passing it from palm to palm. Folding and unfolding it. I don't need it right now. I don't need it today. Biting my lip, I open the same drawer to return the money to it's home. My hand just hovers over the space, not certain it wants to let the green savings go. I keep staring at it. I know the exact amount these bills will get me. How long the euphoria will last. How great the world will be again. This knowledge makes me bring the money away from the drawer, back to my body. I finally force myself to throw it down on top of the clothes and shove the drawer shut with a frustrated groan, stomping away. Then I'm stopping and turning right back around. Quickly, I speed back to the worn piece of furniture and retrieve the small pile before quickly heading out the door.

I feel the chill of the air outside before I reach the door and wrap my arms around myself. I need it today so I won't need it tomorrow. None tomorrow. Tomorrow is for Angel. None tomorrow.

In my haste, I'm so engrossed in these thoughts I barely notice the rain. I'm so lost inside myself. In my hurry to get my hands on it and bring it back here, I bumped hard into another body. Without looking up to see who it belonged to, I attempt an apology and keep going.

Off to get the only thing that'll help. Off to make the pain go away.

I need it today so I won't need it tomorrow.


	3. The Door Is That Way

**A/N:** apologies for the mini-delay...kinda happens when your car blows its engine on the interstate and you have to spend the next four days bumming rides and trying to figure out what the hell you're going to do now...on a happier note...New chapter. New character...New POV...enjoy, or don't ...either way. i can't really force anything from you. as in the last one...profanity a-plenty.

**Disclaimer: Must I painfully admit once again that it's not mine? Ok...--sniffs back tear-- ...it's not. **

_"Someday_

_All of this pain may make sense to you_

_Some say_

_Losing it all can bring something new."_

_- "Someday" The Perishers_

_00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000_

The familiar song bounces off the walls, resounding through the empty apartment. I always end up playing the same chords, no matter what I start playing. There's a chill in the air fitting for the solemn place that had, not long ago, had the sound of laughter floating easily in the air. Laughter wasn't here now. Too much had happened; was going to happen.

Tomorrow. A funeral.

The first. Angel's was the first. Images of headstones and freshly dug plots invade my mind.

Happy Halloween. No celebrating this year. I haven't celebrated the holiday in over two years, I think. Not since April and I went to some party I barely remember. Now Halloween brings a funeral. Is that considered irony? Maybe. Probably. I don't know.

My fingers strum absently while I roll through the thoughts in my head. It's always helped me think. The weight of the guitar in my lap, the vibration of the strings, the feel of the smooth neck in my palm, it's always been a comfort. Not much of one right now. My eyes are directed across the room. The steel table Angel had lively drummed the day I met him is cluttered with meaningless junk. Empty cups, bowls, newspapers, all sorts of mess. I didn't get to know him that well. I wish I had. He meant so much to Collins...and Mimi.

My finger plucks a sour note when she enters my mind. I don't want to think about her, even though I know this is killing her. A familiar taste; a sick, dryness in my mouth when I realize how she's probably dealing with it. Again there's an unpleasant twang from the instrument. Flexing my fingers, I shake the irritating cramp making itself known in my hand. A small price to pay for my security blanket. My eyes now fall to the floorboards at my feet. I feel like if I stare hard enough, will it to happen, I'll be able to see through them. See her down there. If she was even home. If she wasn't out working or buying her poison.

There's that taste again; making my tongue feel heavy inside my mouth. I doubted she'd be up to working so soon after Angel's death. Which left only door number two. A door I've chosen so many times before. But that was before; in the past. I closed that door, locked it up tight. I shake my head bitterly, forcing the thoughts from my head and turning my attention back to my guitar. My hands poise to start again, but before I can strike a single string I stand up. Jumping to my feet, a noise resembling a growl escapes as I do.

Why did she have to choose me? Why'd she come to my door with her damn candle? Why'd she come through my window like fucking Peter Pan?

I was fine. Just staying in and away from everyone. The world. I was fine with the idea of being alone. There was Mark, of course, but I was always alone. I was fine being alone. I'd made peace with it. No girlfriend to endanger. No wife to widow. No children to orphan.

Than she came. Asking for a light. Those damn eyes. Her smile. Waltzing in; it felt for a second that we had heat in the dark, frozen loft.

Fuck.

Why'd she pick me?

I hate that she chose me, but at the same time, I wish she'd be able to choose me...choose us, over her needle. She couldn't seem to make that choice. Damn her for starting the fire again. A fire that should've stayed dead and buried where it belonged. If it had, I wouldn't be fuming, pacing back and forth right now.

She said she'd stop using; promised she'd get clean and stay clean. I'm know she meant it, I'm positive she could've have succeeded. Than Benny happened. Benny...just his name pissed me off. She swore nothing happened and but I ignored her. Too blinded by my own pride and anger to give her twelve seconds of my time to explain whatever it was. Finally, when I calmed down and went downstairs to apologize, there she was, that fucking needle in her hand, hovering just above her skin. She'd been a deer caught in headlights, staring at me. I could tell by the look in her eyes it wasn't the first time that day. And I walked away.

Relapse. Weakness. Surrender.

Whatever you want to call it, I despised her for it. I knew she hadn't stopped completely by then, but I deluded myself into thinking she was on her way. Toning it down. Weaning herself off, I guess you'd call it. Then, the night of the storm, for some reason, most likely because I knew how bad Angel was getting, I went downstairs to check on her.

When I knocked, she didn't answer the door.

Fuck, that scared me. Why the hell could she do that to me? Why'd she have to pick me?

I went out on the balcony, in the pouring rain, and came in through her window. I found her in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Soaking wet, shaking and vomiting uncontrollably. The sight of her, shit, that hurt more than anything. I brought her up here. I stop pacing, letting my eyes fall to the thin, piss-poor excuse for a couch that sat in the middle of the loft. The exact spot we sat while her body jerked and twitched all night. She was trying.I knew she was trying.

Not hard enough. Not fucking hard enough.

I caught her, the very next day, in The Man's alley. I confronted her. I don't remember exactly what either of us said. I remember she was begging; she was crying when I left her there with her precious purchase. I start pacing again, angrily, remembering everything.

I may have lost my temper, but I couldn't help it. Now look where we are.

I hear a loud noise from below. Like something falling or crashing. I think I heard her voice. Heard her scream something. Worst case scenario claiming my mind, I quickly travel to the door, sliding it open. I'm barely aware my guitar is still in my hands; it felt more like a weapon now than a comfort. I get to the stairs before my better judgement takes over, leaving me standing still at the top of the staircase for a few moments.

After calming myself, erasing the ridiculous assumptions I hadn't meant to make, I actually take a step down before changing my mind; going to the roof instead. The door creaked open with a painful groan and the brisk autumn air filled my lungs. The temperature out here feels only a few degrees lower than the heatless loft below.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. The air tastes like rain. The clouded sky is probably about ready to break open and pour any minute. If only it could wash it all away. Get rid of everything that's happened. Cleanse the grime and pain and hideous world I've known for too long.

I can't do this anymore. The thought comes to me unintentionally and I let it linger. Soak in what it was; if I'd meant it. I can't. I can't be here. I have to get out. Out of Alphabet City. Out of New York. Go somewhere new. Somewhere fresh. That's it. I've just got to pick up and leave, before anyone can try to talk to me about it.

Get away from her. If I see her I'll want her. I'll want to help her. I'll miss her. I'll hate her and love her. I'll have to watch her disappear.

God, I hate her so much right now.

I'm leaving. Get a hold of some money and go.

After the funeral I'm gone. The only thing I have worth any money is my guitar. I hold it up and look at it.

"Shit." I whisper to myself.

No choice. If that's what it takes, that's what I'll do. A heavy sigh falls from my lips as I feel the first drop of rain hit my face.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'm out of here.


	4. What's My Sin?

**A/N: **once again come the apologies for the wait...see, here's the thing, most everything i write -**everything** - is inspired by a song. when i hear the right song, the thing just pops in my head and BOOM! instant fic...well maybe not _instant_ but you get the idea. i've just recently found the right song for this next chap...on top of that, i rewrote it i think three times because i just found her hard to write for. but i've finally decided this is the best of the versions i've come up with for her. so it's definitely not my favorite (fyi...mark's is my favorite )

**Disclaimer: ...still not mine.**

_"While you're outside lookin in_

_Describin what you see_

_Remember what you're starin at is me..."_

_- "Through the Glass" Stone Sour_

_000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000_

The city went into a quick spin as I push through the rotating door. A second later, myself, along with a small slew of other suits, are released onto the crowded sidewalk in front of the building. Immediately I notice what a hurry everyone seems to be in; have to get somewhere to do something that can't possibly wait another second. I'm used to it. It was always like this here. Always somewhere to be and never time to waste.

For a few seconds, I just stand in one spot. I don't care about the annoyed looks I get from the people bumping and forcing their way past me. They walk right through me if they could. I just remain in place, staring up at the tall, tall building I've just exited. A tower of steel and glass identical to every other nearby, except for the numbers plated in large brass just above the doors. From here it really looks like it's actually scraping against the pale sky. Like if it were ever to come down, you'd be able to see a tear just above where it's roof had been. Maybe rain was actually the sky crying out in pain of all the scars and scrapes that people forced it to endure. No. That's not true. Just the influence of those six artists showing its face. They would all probably find it an amusing cause for celebration that the all-business cog in the corporate machine could have any thoughts remotely resembling something poetic.

Five.

I have to remind myself. There's five of them now. Five left.

With a sigh, my gaze returns down to Earth. To these people moving in the fluid motion of a sea of chaos. To the outsider's eye, I'm one of them. Just another three-piece suit working day to day, dedicating life and selling her soul for the greater advancement of a corporate monster. But they don't know how unlike them I really am. I can't look at them, any of them here, without finding something to criticize and be completely repulsed by. Just yesterday, I heard one of the newer guys on the floor complaining that the restaurant he'd been to gave him a rare steak instead of well-done, like he'd asked. It was all I could do not to grab his tie and use it to hang him from the ceiling.

Some time ago, I would've just ignored the comment as everyday banter, but I can't anymore. I can't calmly listen to him complain that his steak wasn't made to his specific request when I knew people who often questioned whether or not they'd eat at all from one day to the next.

I still love my job, however, and will continue to do it as long as I feel that way. But I'm not as comfortable around my coworkers as I had been before. I'm able to get through the day, doing my job, getting work done, and only occasionally wanting to rip someone's head off. A few times I actually have introduced a disagreement about the ignorance I'm surrounded by when compared to the world I knew of now. But for the most part, I'm perfectly capable of working soundly and efficiently. Except today I was told to leave; that there was nothing more I needed to do today. All but thrown out of my own office. I'll leave when I choose. True I'd completed everything available to me for the moment, but I would've been able to find soemthing productive to do. If I want to be at work, leave me alone and let me work.

I shake my head slightly, enough to feel the familiar movement of my hair swerving at the motion. Truth is, I could care less if I'm at work or not. I just really don't want to go home. Not now. Not yet.

I don't want to see her stuff lying all over the place; the stuff that's been there since the split. I haven't packed it up yet or called her to come get it. I know what'll happen if I do: She'll say she'll be there to get it and never show. I'll call to remind her, she'll ask me to bring it out to her.

I don't want to deal with any of that. Chances were I'd end up actually doing it for her. I think that's what really bothers me about it. That even though we're not together, I'd probably still do something she asked me to. A sigh; I don't want to deal with that.

Most of all, I don't want to go home and stand in front of my closet. Stare at the row of suits hanging up, neat and creased. I don't want to decide which one I should wear tomorrow.

God. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Someone bumps my shoulder, harder than any of the others had. I stumble slightly before my feet steady again on the concrete. Have I been standing in the same place this whole time? Exactly how long has it been? Another shake of my head; it doesn't matter, so I just take a few steps and hail a cab. After a few seconds, one of the yellow cars slows to a stop before me.

Climbing in, I mutter an address automatically, without any thought involved. It's only after we start moving I realize it wasn't my address that I'd given him. I open my mouth to correct myself, but, for some reason, remain silent and decided it's not worth it. I just relax back against the seat and stare out the window. Quietly, I watch the world move past me as the taxi rolls down the street with a purpose. The cold corporate world, built high enough to injure the sky above with it's unfeeling metals, slowly begins to fade as another world comes to view. Sidewalks slowly become dirtier, occupied by a different type of traffic. Each building gradually becomes more worn than the one before.

Of course, however judgemental and out of touch I feel at work, I know I don't really belong here either. The world they live in. As welcome as they try to make me feel, as much fun as we all have together, I'm still on the outside. Actually, I'm not. I'm the one stuck inside. Stuck in a box of glass, watching them experience a life I can never really touch. Air I could never truly breathe into my lungs. They were the ones outside; free. I don't belong. I'm just the girlfriend.

Was.

I _was_ the girlfriend. What did that make me now? Forgotten? Someone they humored while she dated their real friend? Was that really what they thought? How they felt? The idea left a stinging in my chest. I didn't like that thought at all. The cab screeched suddenly, the driver honking his horn and shouting a curse, ripping me from my own mind.

"Hey." I say, surprised and annoyed. New York...

"Sorry," he began to explain, " idiot on his bike." he continued to mumble to himself before pulling over. After handing him his money, I exit quickly. On the sidewalk, my eyes eagerly scan the area for the blonde man I've come to know. No one. No light haired camera man. It could've been him; he'd had enough time to get out of sight before I got out. Then again, it's not like he's the only guy in the city who rode a bike.

I dismiss the thought and focus on where I'd unintentionally directed the driver. The building - ugly and beautiful all at once - that I used to spend so much time in. Setting up. Organizing. Preparing. But most of the time, the best of times, watching her practice. As much as I laughed at her rehearsed eccentrics, I loved watching her perform. There was so much passion in her and it all showed in her perfomances. No matter how big or small the issue. She always made it seem like humanity depended on it. I have to smile, remembering the first time she'd played out her entire "Save Our Home" protest for me. The mooing part alone killed me. I was both mortified and immensely proud.

I miss her smile.

The thought sneaks in before I can control it. It surprises me. I push it right back out. I don't want that. I want to be bitter; angry. It'll be easier to see her tomorrow if I'm too angry to actually miss her.

Lies.

There's no such thing as easy, especially where tomorrow is concerned. Biting my lip, I look at the double door entrance, covered in old announcement flyers. I _do_ miss her smile. I imagine she's behind those doors, sitting on the stage. Thinking of what she can do next; what message she should try to send and how. If I walk in there now, would she be happy to see me? If she's even in there. Is she in tehre right this minute, depressed, maybe even crying, about tomorrow? I can almost picture it. Feel the weight of the door as I pull it back to open it. See her sitting, legs dangling off the stage, staring at the floor lost in her own thoughts; her own grief. Hear my shoes click against the floor, echoing in the large space. Feel my arms wrap around her, hers around me. Crying into each other. Comforting each other. Finding each other again.

Maybe. All I have to do to find out is open that door and walk inside. Only one way to know for sure. Maybe it's what we need. Both of us. Maybe. Just have to open the door. Just open the door. I can do that. I can open a door. I can do this.

A deep breath, for luck maybe, and I reach my hand out. The metallic handle is cold to the touch, I feel a shiver fly through me and grip it tightly. Open the door. Just open the door. My knuckles become significantly lighter as my hold tightens with each second. Wet. A drop of rain smacks right into my extended hand. I let go. Stepping back, my eyes still on the door, I feel the beginning of the rain fall. I remember my theory about the sky scrapers. Another step back, a small shudder, and I'm turning to walk away. Stuffing my hands in my jacket pockets, I'm completely aware of the looks I'm given. They know what I know.

I don't belong here.

Me in my suit. I'm the enemy. Where do I belong? Nowhere. Not anymore.

My mind too open for the world I'm from. My life too sheltered for the world I love.

I'm nowhere. In a glass box, watching everyone around me.


	5. In Her Cage

**A/N: ** oh the insanity of busy, busy-ness...no worries. i will not bore you with details or stories, instead i'll add to this story and hope it doesn't bore you...enjoy!

**Disclaimer :::: you know the deal. . . not mine. don't own. bibbity bobbity blah**

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_"This basement's a coffin_

_I'm buried alive_

_I'll die in here just to be sure _

_"This Ruined Puzzle"_ Dashboard Confessional

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A rhythmic thumping noise fills my ears. The steady clunking of my heels swinging back against the stange as I sit on the edge; the only sound in here. Outside, past the doors and in the air, there's a stampede of sound. Most times chaotic, others - the solemn twilight - it was calm. The illusion of peace and control. 

Noise, people called it all. The annoying noise of the city. Those people were blind...or deaf, I guess, in this case.

It's not noise. It's music. It's always been music to me. From the very first second I stepped on the street of this city.

The beautiful melody of living. Both welcoming and intimidating. Just standing on the sidewalk can give me the most incredible rush of adrenaline. I want to stand on the rooftops and sing out. I want to climb a tree in the park. I want to lay down and let myself fall into it's enchanting embrace. That's what it does to me. But that's out there. I'm in here. In silence. I've never really been a fan of it; silence. I prefer the music.

Inspiring music; swirling around me in crazy colors. Dance in it. Soak it in. Fill my heart to bursting.

In the silence, there's only thought. I'm left alone inside my head. Kind of a scary place to be; moreso now than ever before. So I came here; my little hideaway. My haven. Came with hope that my creative juices would start flowing. That ideas and scenarios would develop and distract me from...everything. But, no.

Here I am. Here I've been for a good portion of the day, and nothing.

Well, not exactly nothing, I guess. There is one scenario that is relentlessly rolling through my head like Mark set up one of his films and my mind is the screen it plays on. Tomorrow. What it'll be like. Each time I end up picturing it, it's always different and, at the same time, always the same. As much pain and sorrow that'll be there, no matter how many times it plays out in my head, the awkwardness always overpowers it.

Tension of resentment and hostility. It'll fill the small church once we're all inside it. The air will thicken and those feelings will overshadow the point of the day. The reason we're there. All our personalities in there, each of them struck or scorned by something the other did, the attempts to remain civil and respectful will no doubt fail after a short while. Between the five of us, Collins will be the only one truly focused on why we'll be there. The only one hurting solely for the right reason.

For Angel. His beautiful Angel. A wonder whose name said everything you needed to know before you met her. Angel, who fell so completely in love with Collins. Two of my great friends found love with each other. What an amazin thing. And it happened twice! Roger and Mimi found each other too.

And for a brief moment - a tick of a clock; a blink of an eye or perhaps a single flap of a humming bird's rapid wing - we were happy. All of us. We were together and we were happy and we were untouchable. Invincible.

Here we are. Everyone who came together has since fallen apart. I can't help thinking that Collins and Angel had it right. That they were the only ones who actually got this 'love' thing right. A relationship that was without the selfishness and ultimatums and contradictions and deceptions that about ninety eight of the living population have. I think the key to it was they knew what was there. Like they could sense how grand a thing they had between them and were willing to work as hard as necessary and then even harder to keep it. None of us, I guess, could see what we had. They got it right. It was death that parted them. And for love - real, true, honest to God, love - death should be the only thing that could ever come between it. Yeah. They got it right. They had it right.

Here we are. Here I am.

Here I am. Alone. In silence.

I wonder how long I'll be alone. In the end, when all the funerals have happened; when our group has dwindled down to the very last of it's survivors. Mark and myself; Joanne? She and Mark will most likely keep in touch for a while. Maybe for the rest of their lives, who knew? But the last of the originals, Mark and myself. What will that be like? Will we even still be friends? Will our conversations be false and apathetic? Filled with only the necessary small talk; 'How are you's' and answers of indifference. I wonder if either of us will have even the slightest hint of happiness in our eyes. Any sort of love in our lives. Will we be strangers to one another?

I hate to think it'll be that way. I hate to imagine what life will be like with all my dear friends gone; what it'll do to me to live through losing them.

Sometimes I don't think Mark actually realizes he's not the only one who'll be left behind in the end. He's not the only person whose health feels like more of a curse than a blessing. He's not the only one who has to watch. Not allowed to touch them - even if just to help them up when they trip and fall - if there's the tiniest bit of red on their skin or clothes.

It's kind of funny, when I think about it. Obviously not laugh out loud funny, more of a cynical irony. You would think that since they were sick, they would be the ones being coddled and protected and fussed over. Really it was the other way around. It was always them making sure that we, the so-called "lucky ones", were protected from the invisble monster living in the deep crimson.

I scoff at the thought. These are the kinds of things I would talk to Joanne about. Yeah, I know what people think. They think what we had was some strange, one-sided relationship, that had to be based completely on the sex because why else would straight laced her put up with crazy, crazy me. But there was so much more.

We could talk to each other. I mean, really talk. About the things we couldn't talk to anyone else about for whatever reason we felt we couldn't. She told me on more than one occassion how she was afraid Mark and all of them didn't really accept her because she didn't know what it felt like to be where they were. I told her even more how deathly scared I was of the inevitable day when they would all be gone.

Damn her.

At the time I told her such things, it felt right because she was mine and I was hers. Thinking about it now, hearing the words I said to her and looking around this empty building, I feel like an complete idiot. She made a fool out of me. Like the dumbass I am, I showed her the piece of me I never wanted anybody else to see, ever. What did I get out of it? This.

Solitude. Space. Echoes in emptiness.

My ears perk, the sound of rain tinkering against the building reminding me there is a world outside the door. I wipe the tear that somehow snuck out with me noticing off my cheek and rise to my feet. I walk across the room, clicking and clacking as I step over the floor. Grabbing the handle, I stop in place, finding myself flashing back to the days I would open it as she was about to enter. She would jump, not expecting it and I would excitedly greet her and bring her inside, never letting on that each time it happened I was just as surprised as she was by the near collision.

I let myself imagine how great it would be if that happened this time. If I opened the door and found her just on the other side, ready to open it herself. I don't think I could pretend I wasn't surprised if it did. Yes, I'm bitter. I'm resentful. I'm just plain pissed at her and I"m pretty sure I even hate her a little bit. But even so, with all of that, I can't help but wish it would be that way. I take a deep breath, as if I'm completely sure she's on the other side of the door.

My grip tightens on the handle, the voice in my head is...I don't know, praying? Am I really praying? To who? To what? Whatever I'm doing, whoever I'm directing it to, I'm promising that if she somehow appears on the other side, I will swallow my pride and jump into her arms. I'll squeeze her tighter than I ever have before, I'll kiss her and I'll tell her I'm sorry for everything and I just want it back. Whatever we had, if it's the real thing or if it's just some illusion, I don't care. Because I just want that piece of me back. I'll tell her that it wasn't about her being mine and me being hers. It was about her being me, and me being her and that piece of me is walking around having a whole other life and I don't like it at all. I swear. I promise. If she's right there. If the only thing seperating us is the dreary little slab on hinges. We'll talk all night. We'll cry together tomorrow. The day everyone should have someone to lean on.

I close my eyes and pull open the door fast enough I almost invision it ripping off the hinges and sliding across the floor. I hear the music of the city. I hear the rain hitting against the concrete and asphalt. I don't hear her voice. Maybe she's in just as much shock as I'll be if I open my eyes and she's really there. I'll happily go into that shock, I realize. I'll do everything I promised. Really. Brace myself. Open my eyes...

She's not there.

There's a quick second where I feel the defeat and disappointment. Then it's gone. I'm lifting my chin and pursing my lips in that proud manner that's only mine. That says I'm not afraid of anyone or anything. I close the door and stomp back inside. Was I really expecting her to be there? Who was I kidding?

Only myself.

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	6. Your Blanket

**A/N: So here I am after some time of not. Due to a series of unforeseeable events I have been away. If you don't want to hear my excuses then ignore and skip straight to the story. Anyway, first it took quite a while to get a Collins chap/perspective that I was satisfied with. Second my computer was an angry little thing and went poof! insert cloud of dust here. But I am happy to say I am now uploading this from my shiny pretty shiny oh-so-pretty new one. Enjoy!**

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"_Some things tie your life together_

_ With slender threads and things to treasure_

_ Days like that should last and last and last…"_

_ 'Dusk and Summer' - Dashboard Confessional_

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Mango Mystique. Berry Kiss. Sultry…Sultry something.

I turn the metallic tube over and over in my fingers, allowing the light to hit it from every possible angle. Hoping one of them will renew the worn out words back to their visible glory. Squinting, I try to make out the letters; try to read the ridiculous name assigned to the specific blend of color.

Pulling the cap off with little force, the small nub of pinkish hue shows itself. Pinkish. That's what I call it. That's what it is. Why don't they just call it that? Why do they feel the need to pull some crazy name out of their asses and carve it in the side of the tube? I get a picture in my head. A large mahogany table - freshly polished of course - in a ridiculously large room. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling behind the head's chair. A full view of the city, occupied with the down and out, day to day, folks they aim at. Twenty suited guys sitting around the table. All sitting there with their white smiles and brainstorming. 'What should we call this one?' is the question. The purpose of the meeting.

It's almost enough to bring a smile to my face - light hearted or bitter? I think cynical. Yeah, that's probably right - to think that such situation would occur. That those suits would get paid some lofty six figure check to come up with some rhyming or alliterative stamp to label a tube of lipstick.

As stupid as it is, I want to know what this one's called. Worn almost completely away, she used this one the most. This was her favorite. Mine too. I always told her, when she was in the process of putting it on, that though she looked great in every one, this was my favorite. I should know what it's called. Turning it over, I touch the soft tip to the back of my left hand and slide it gently across.

The small streak of color standing out against my dark skin. Looking at it, focusing on the light shade, I can see it on her lips.

I close my eyes.

I close my eyes and I see her. See the last time I saw her wearing it. The last time I saw this color painted over her lips. Those lips parting, spreading into a brilliant smile. The memory, it felt so far away. Too far to think about. But, with my eyes closed, it was right there.

It wasn't a memory. She was right there. Right in front of me. Such an illuminating face. A figure of genuine beauty and goodness.

I keep my eyes closed. I'm afraid if I don't. If I open them…she'll leave. She'll be gone again. I'll go back to a place where I know she isn't and won't be again. So my lids don't waver. I keep them shut.

I can still see her. The air I breathe tastes of her scent; her essence. Feel her. Lift my hand and cup it against that flawless skin - void of any abrasions that took residence during those final days. Trace my finger over those full lips, glossed with the pink color. This Sultry something.

A loud sound. A crashing noise from outside strikes the peaceful air of the room and startles me. Jerking at the sound, I feel the lipstick fall from my hold, connecting with the floor to bounce and roll somewhere out of sight. The exact moment I feel it slip, I her face disappeared. Not some dreamy slow fade. Just a straight up, there than not. The bright image vanished. All that's left for me to see is the dark back of my eyelids.

A sigh of disappointment before my eyes open. The apartment, her apartment, seemed cold and vacant. Not physically. It was so much more than that. There was the absence of something…an energy. When she was alive, even without being in the building, there was an electricity here in the air. In her possessions. I could always feel it here.

Until this very second. Until the moment her face fell away.

Now, I felt the emptiness of the space. Even surrounded by her things, I felt I was in a bare room. It was like the things she owned, even the smallest things, had been given life and by simply being in hers. From lamps to lipsticks, everything had a vibrant personality. But now… with the disappearance of her face from that moment, the possessions were made aware of her death.

They knew she was gone and they in turn died, in a way. Losing whatever characterization they'd assumed and turned back into mere objects. Cold, lifeless objects.

I can't be here. Not anymore. Not enveloped by the overbearing isolation of the room. So I don't. I force myself from my sitting position at the end of the bed - her bed, our bed - and leave. Leave the room. Leave the apartment. Leave the building altogether.

I'm not too sure where I'm going while I'm walking. I don't even know where I want to be. As long as it's not up there. So I just let my feet move me forward. One in front of the other, they move. I move.

My mind wanders. Ignoring the things I see around me. The people carrying on with their lives as best they can. I think about the people I know. I think about my friends. Think about going to see them; one of them at the very least. See how they're doing. Talk a little bit. About nothing if it'll help us feel better. I've seen them all…they all promised to behave tomorrow. All said there wouldn't be any problems or scenes caused. Tomorrow.

It's a lie. The sad thing is they don't even know. When they tell me, when they promise me, they'll be cool they're lying right to my face and they don't even know it. But I do. I know it. I know that they'll try and they'll want to be able to handle being around everyone. But it's only going to take one tiny thing, a look, a word, maybe even something as simple as a sigh, that'll send someone at someone else. Most likely, it's going to happen. And it's going to erupt.

Emotions will rage. Tempers flare. Hurtful, angry words will be said. Words that can't be taken back.

And by the time it's finally over, they'll be so blinded by anger and pain that they won't even know what happened. They won't even remember the reason they were in the first place. They won't remember tomorrow was about her.

I have to hold on to the slim thread of optimism that says I'm just waiting for the worst. That I'm not counting on their love for Angel to be strong enough, to be reason enough for them to swallow their pride and bite back their words…and just be there.

I wonder if they can see how broken they are. How broken we all are anymore.

I tilt my head up, squinting them at the sky, the water drops freefalling at will. The contact of the cool October rain against my skin is almost a comfort. To know that, as often as things change, there are things that will always stay the same.

Seasons will always change. Rain will always fall. As cold as the world gets, it always heats back up again. These things will always remain. I guess…yeah…I think that's definitely got to be comforting knowledge. Or maybe it depends really. I mean, knowing something depends on how you know it. How you see it. To see that the world goes on as normal after losing someone can relieve or infuriate you. On one hand it offers the promise that it will be ok. That you can live on afterwards. But, of course, there's the other hand. The one that alerts you to your own individual insignificance as far as the universe is concerned. That something so profound can happen to you or your life, and everything just continues without fail.

I shake my head in the rain. I'm thinking in circles. The habit of the philosopher. See something, think something, than spend your time wondering why you see it that way or why you think it that way.

The shower continues. The people who were once around me have made their exits. Seeking refuge from the precipitation. Not me.

I know I look like an idiot; standing here in the rain. Look like some lost child, doesn't know what to do without a hand holding mine. I don't care. Let any onlooker or passerby think what they want. I want to stay here. I want to feel this rain on my skin; weighing down my clothes. Want these tears to soak through my layers, past my blood and bones. I want them to seek out my core. Touch my soul.

Welcome my pain like a brother and embrace it. Accept it in all it's raw truth and let it be without restriction. This is what I want. This is what I need.

If I'm going to live on. If I'm going to accept that the world will always and must always continue on. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life without her hand in mine; without lips, without her eyes. This is what I need.

I need to feel it.

If I'm going to get through burying her. Watching the polished box lower into the Earth. If I'm going to handle all that and still keep them from reaching each other's throats.

I need to feel it. All of it.

I need to let it overwhelm me. Every ounce of it. Everything my brain knows but my heart fears. What it refuses to know. I need it. Right here, on the storm covered sidewalk.

Stretching out my arms, feeling the thumps of fat drops colliding with the leather of the coat she bought me so long ago - that I've worn everyday since. I close my eyes and lean my head back as far as my neck will allow. Completely exposed and vulnerable to the open sky. Probably looks like something out of a cheesy drama or something, but nonetheless this is what I do.

I remember being a child. Wondering what was up there in that big sky. Wondering exactly how far up it was that a Heaven existed. Wondering how a place, so talked about, so believed in, so supposedly divine could remain hidden so well. I remember looking up at that same sky, same moon, same stars, everyday and looking for it. Looking for the proof that there was something up there. Someone watching us. Caring for us.

I remember I finally stopped looking. I remember just realizing that it wasn't physical proof that solidifies people's devotion to it. It's the idea. It's the abstract belief that comforts them when they need it most. An idea so powerful that it was able to manifest itself in people's hearts. Faith.

So, what is love? Is love just an idea within ourselves? A creation of our subconscious we use to wrap around ourselves when we need something to hold on to? Powerful enough to manifest into the physical feeling described by poets and singers? Does love exist?

Did we have love? Were we both just wrapping up in the same blanket to keep warm through the cold times we struggled through? Did we love?

With these thoughts swirling dangerously - fearfully- through my head, I kept my eyes shut while I bared myself to the sky and the falling water. The question on a continuous loop in my mind:

Did we love?

I feel my lip begin to quiver. The slight tremor bouncing beads of moisture into my mouth. Without moving, only barely aware of it, my own tears forced past my shut lids.

Did we love?

Feeling them slip out to mix with the tears shedding from whatever it was above me, I knew the answer.

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**_A/N: was that worth the wait? Did you stop waiting forever ago? I hope the answers are yes and no in that order. Anyway, there's still one more chapter left before And So It Is ends._**

**R**


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